The bairn has neglected to pay the internet again, making it impossible to back this month’s novel up to the cloud. So I’m having to leave two hours early for work – to use in-town wi-fi – and I haven’t a fucking clue what my word count is.
I’m praying the bus station has free wi-fi – otherwise I’m going to be frequenting starbucks, which I personally regard as desertion and treachery. Those who follow me on twitter (@white_cell) will no doubt be aware of my opinion of the dread arsefucks – from shitty coffee to the wholesale financial rape of communities worldwide, I hate them like I hate racism.
So here’s hoping I can back up my tablet to the cloud.
In other news (whatever my word count is) the novel’s taking shape nicely. This morning, I wrote a section about the mmc and mfc’s wedding reception that I’m particularly proud of. Dredging up memories of wedding receptions I’ve attended, as well as the time I followed swans around the uk leg of their 1986 tour, I think I’ve nailed that scene.
Managed to back it all up to the cloud – at 22:20, in Kirkcaldy bus station. And my word count’s lying at a respectable 12007 as of this morning.
Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.